Showing to winery early but not as early as wanted by this writer. My mood, a bit off, but I write myself through and out of it. This brontide about me that I can’t explain, but again, I slice through it like a jungle, each sentence a swing of blade. Work today, only wanting to travel, see more of the world but I’m here. That fixation isn’t in any way healthy. And this blog, bottledaux written a by a true and truthful bottled ox, about health and understanding of self, about knowing who you are and where you’re going and you being the conductor, the one calling shots all and calling for new directions when warranted.
Waking with kids this morning, Jack only wanting to go downstairs and draw, write, get to his work. Then me, the writing daddy, struggling to wake or not so much struggling but not as quick as this wee beat 33 years my younger. 33 years.. more time than I can even appreciate or adequately fathom at present, in this side room from the main tasting room, at the polish wood table shaped like California, that I’ve written on, at, so many times past.
My mind isn’t of writing shape or beat this morning but I force. I force me and it, and I know people wonder what I do with all I write other than the blog…. Good question. Think just a second ago I came up with an answer. My thought momentums and seismology… have to get it under some kind of control, this morrow, for the day. Again, health… what’s healthy and what’s better for character, my Personhood and collective story here on the planet, with everyone around me, this bottled ox. Writing to beats and can see self speaking at functions and collectives, conventions if you would, universities. Everyone talks about scaling… I know what to scale. So only do that. Whatever your prowess is, build from there. Find it, envelop yourself in it, propels it everywhere.
My mood elevates, and I follow with my sights, my creative and music…. Where I am, tasting room. What I’m doing… mediating. Writing. Collecting. About to go for a walk in the vineyard, for further assembly…. Looking at old notes and expanding from them, explaining them more to myself and the day, what I’m to do with the day, what I want and where I’m going.
If you’re in some happiness stall, some rut or funk, or just not seeing the day as you want to see it, or the healthy way of perceiving your surroundings and your Self, then write. Put ink on lines, on sheet. What do you see? What do you want from the day? The mood is wholly under your control. Should you doubt this approach, try it. If I’m wrong, then find your way, your spells and inner thaumaturgy for fixing your frame.
Concupiscent of more thought, more understanding from this morning, getting to my pages a my son does, learning from me, from this beat I have playing, from the poetry of the room and the doors our which I see the hill, the wine cave. This day is going to be written and re-written as I want it. Starting now with my verses and decisions, listen to inner-muses and voices and not halting or lulling, pausing, certainly not stopping for some quake in me that wants me to see everything as bleh…. No. Not this morning. The mood, whatever it is, clawing at my sensibility, me now in this chair thankfully not at a Starbucks but a quiet room that is entirely mine. No more mumping. None. Only this energetic poet with sentences to share with the world, teaching self that this morning and every morning is a door way and invitation for the further, to be at my There, right here.